


Frayed, Just A Little

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-21
Updated: 2003-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: How Toby would react to caffeine deprivation?





	Frayed, Just A Little

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Frayed, Just A Little**

**by:** Baked Goldfish

**Character(s):** Toby  
**Category(s):** Humor  
**Rating:** G  
**Archive:** Sure, just tell me where  
**Disclaimer:** Disclaimer: I don't own them. Don't sue, please.  
**Author's Note:** Note: Attempt at humor here. While I totally respect these characters and all, I just thought it would be... well, interesting is a word for it, I guess, to see how Toby would react to caffeine deprivation. Yeah, it's silly. Really, really silly. I don't profess to be Fitzgerald (F. Scott, that is... :-) >

Toby Zeigler was thoroughly unsure of what moved his feet forward in that chilly December morning. What he was sure of was the driving need for coffee. Ah, that black hot elixer of life, that miracle of drinks, that absolute haven from the cold, oppressive world. Yes, perhaps that was what drove his left foot to drop in front of his right to drop in front of his left in that same monotonous pattern on that chilly December morning. 

The office was just as cold as the parking lot. He didn't notice. Walking into his own office, he dumped his briefcase and coat and blindly reached for the dark mug he kept on his desk. The walk to the small kitchenette was a blurry one, punctuated by grunts in reply to the ever-cheerful "Good mornings" of the ever-cheerful White House staffers. 

The kitchenette was empty. Odd for Monday mornings, he thought. He blinked groggily, looking very much like a deranged psychopathic killer standing in the doorway with his coffee mug as the deadly weapon. 

Then he realized why the kitchenette was empty. There was no coffee to be had. 

Toby's mind reeled at the thought. No coffee? He was expected to help run this great country, to help dictate life-saving ideas to the world, to help feed the poor and the defenseless... on no coffee?! That was like, like... like trying to make a car start when it's nothing more than a single hubcap and sparkplug. It was blasphemous. Insane. 

Somebody would pay. 

He stumbled back into the hallway, surrounded by a veritable sea of happy-campers. His ire grew, and a low rumble started in his throat. Whenever anyone sent a happy greeting his way, the rumble would grow slightly and temporarily into a growl. He was scaring little people. It made him feel better. 

Toby finally made it into his office, javaless and grumpy. He slumped down into his chair, feeling like death warmed over. A knock on the door startled him out of his self-pity. One of those young, hapless staffers was poking her happy little head in his doorway. 

"What?" he barked at her, eliciting a small yelp of fear. That made him a little happier. 

"You're needed in the Oval Office, sir," the staffer stated quickly before ducking out of the path of a ball of paper that was thrown her way in a fit of caffeine-less rage. 

Toby grumbled a little more and got up out of his chair to make his way, slowly but surely to his President. As he entered the Oval Office, a familiar, intoxicating smell wafted into his nostrils. 

"Coffee," he whispered to himself, sounding very much like a thirsty man who'd just found an oasis in the desert. 

President Bartlet took a slow, luxiurious sip from his steaming mug. "You say something, Toby?" he asked, completely oblivious to the yearning look on Toby Ziegler's face. 

"Hunh..." Toby stared at the mug, in a trance of some sort. Stared as it made it's way up to the president's waiting lips, as the hot, black liquid seeped forward before being savored fully by the most powerful man in the world. He watched as it sloshed in the cup, a little bit dripping over the sides of the almost-full mug. Oh, what he would give just to lick that little bit off the White House seal that was imprinted on the side of the Presidential Java Jug. 

Bartlet noticed the odd stare his coffee mug was getting, and appropriately hid it behing him protectively. "Uh, have you heard a word I've said, Toby?" 

"Huh? Oh, yeah, right, whatever..." His mind was still on the hedonistic pleasures of Mocha. Then he snapped back to reality. "Wha-?" His eyes went wide with shock, as if he were realizing, for the first time, that he was in the Oval Office. 

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Bartlet surreptitiously set his mug down on his desk, shielding it with his body. 

Toby got a somewhat vacant look in his eyes. He could still smell the coffee, even if it wasn't in his plain view. "N-no... issat all, Mr. Pres-pre... sir?" 

The President looked at him oddly before waving him away. As soon as Ziegler shut the door behind him, Bartlet murmured to himself, "That man needs to switch to decaf." 

Of course, Toby didn't hear him. His head was still spinning from the deep, nutty scent of the rich, hot coffee in the Oval Office. He didn't quite know how he made it back to his own office, but he did. And it was all he could do to keep from crying as he looked at the pitifully empty coffee mug that sat before him. 

So he tried to work. There were papers on his desk, that was for sure. He could not figure out what they said, though. All he could think of was how black the ink was, black like coffee. He eventually dozed off a little, his head resting directly on the desk. And he dreamed. Dreamed that the mountain of papers on his desk had morphed into an infinite number of giant, overfilled coffee mugs, all mocking him endlessly. He woke up with a small yelp when he felt something touch his shoulder. 

A giant, mean coffee mug? No! Heaven help him, it was CJ. 

CJ Cregg looked down at her friend with obvious concern. It was clear to her that he had been having some sort of nightmare. She placed a hand on his back and kneeled down to face him. "Toby, are you okay?" she asked, concern brimming in her big doe eyes. 

He sniffled and pouted as he pointed sadly at his empty mug. "Coffee..." 

Concern quickly changed to confusion. "Huh?" 

Toby picked up the mug and showed CJ its emptiness, his face the epitome of forlorness. "Coffee," he repeated, a little sadder. 

CJ gave him a funny look, got up and walked to the door. "Oh, my god, that is *so* wierd," she mumbled on her way out the door. Toby whimpered and let his head fall back onto the desk. A few moments later, he heard a commotion outside. Just a slight commotion, nothing to warrant any movement on his part. He did not look up. Then his door opened, ever so slightly. He did not look up. Then he smelled it. It. Glorious, wondrous, delectable it. 

At this, he looked up. 

Thick, dark hair and bright, blue-gray eyes poked in the crack cautiously. The door creaked open slowly, and President Bartlet took one step in, eyeing his communications director warily. The door was almost completely open, but Toby could not see that behind the most powerful man on the face of the earth stood numerous White House staffers and interns. They were not, however, looking at Bartlet. They were, instead, staring intently at the pot of hot, freshly brewed coffee that the president was carrying. 

Bartlet moved slowly, carefully towards the somewhat unaware Toby. For his part, the communications director stared, transfixed, at the coffee pot, at the way the liquid moved seamlessly within its transparent walls. The President finally reached Ziegler's desk, moving ever so cautiously to grab his subordinate's mug. Suddenly, Toby made to reach for the mug himself, resting his hand over the opening. 

"Coffee," he mumbled, almost protective of his beloved, oft-used mug. 

Everyone watching the exchange held their breaths, unsure of how Toby was going to react to the fact that someone wanted to take his mug from him, even if it was only for a few seconds. Some wondered if they would soon see a new communications director; others, a new president. 

Jed Bartlet licked his lips nervously as his hand hovered near the coveted cup. "It's gonna be okay, now, Toby," he cooed quietly, gently moving the other man's hand from the mug. Slowly, he eased the mug off the desk, keeping one eye on Toby warily as he used the other to make sure that he didn't spill hot coffee on himself. Once the mug was full, he placed it back down on the desk, nudging it gently towards the near catatonic Toby. "Coffee," he said in a singsong voice. 

The audience to this drama nearly jumped out of their skins when Toby made a mad lunge for the mug. He seemed to down the scalding liquid in one gulp, and motioned for a refill. Bartlet quickly complied with the request, and watched as Toby sipped a little less violently at the new coffee. The staffers all let out a collective sigh as the president told Toby that the pot would stay in the kitchenette and that he would personally make sure that it stayed full for the entire day. 

Toby put the mug down. He blinked a few times, rolled his shoulders back, adjusted his tie, and set about leafing through the papers on his desk. The president turned on his heel, and faced his staff with confidence and said something about the hardest part of the job before walking out. Toby reacted to this by glancing up from his newfound work. It was at this point that he noticed the crowd that had formed outside his door and that was still staring in. 

"What the hell is going on out there?" he snapped. "Is it story time or something?" The staffers exchanged confused glances and comments. He sighed, frustrated. "You people have work to do." When they just looked at him blankly, he grabbed angrily at his mug. "Do it!" he barked, taking a healthy swig of java to accentuate his command. 

The staffers scurried, the door was closed, the buzz of workplace commotion was back. 

And all was right in the world. 

-end- 


End file.
